


All The Things You Are

by xCaraLena



Category: Magic Kaito, 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed
Genre: Angst, Classical - Freeform, Fluff, Humour, Jazz - Freeform, M/M, Saxophonist!Kaito, Violinist!Shinichi, musician au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-06 10:19:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17937956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xCaraLena/pseuds/xCaraLena
Summary: Shinichi was heaving against the wall of some club when he realized his life was basically a joke. Kaito, an eccentric saxophonist, was nothing short of jokes. It all started when he was dragged through the doors to a glimmer of shining silver and unrestrained music.





	1. Laura

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been working on this since like November, I’m finally giving in and posting because I’ve given up and it’s finished so I might as well. Anyways, it’s a mess of jazz (stuff I know about) and classical (stuff I know little about) and I tried to be as accurate as possible fitting to the plot (which is also a mess at this point). But I hope you guys enjoy regardless. Warning: expect a lot of darling’s and potential grammar mistakes.
> 
> Big vibes to this song too: Glad To Be Unhappy by Chris Botti
> 
> Songs used/mentioned in this chapter if you want to follow along: 
> 
> \- All The Things You Are by Ella Fitzgerald  
> \- Laura by Charlie Parker

“I’m sorry Kudou-san, but I’m removing you from the part.”

His chair creaked briefly as he sat up straighter—feeling the weight shift onto his feet and his bow twitch briefly to the side. The words echoed throughout the rehearsal hall, and it took him an extra second to lower his violin.

“Wait, I’m sorry, say that again? Clearly I must have misheard you.” His laugh was hesitant, even as he matched eyes with the emotionless face. _He wasn’t sorry_.

“I’m removing you from the part.”

It was spoken slowly this time, yet all too fast the words had him nearly overturning his stand, along with its multiple pages of Beethoven, Bach, and Mozart alike. “And you’re giving it to who?” his face scrunched up, “ _Hakuba_? Because I’m pretty sure the last time he tried going past bar 5 he couldn’t, so do keep that in mind—!”

“ _Kudou-san,_ ” Lights flickered. Chairs squeaked. Players breathed. “You are dismissed.”

The words rang like an extra burn to Shinichi’s ears.

“Take a break and clear your head,” the man continued, sounding exasperated as if he was the one who was short of breath. All the while shaking his head with a certain amount of disappointment that made Shinichi’s insides curl.

He was already walking back to the podium and Shinichi, never really one for violence, was about ready to grab him by the collar and shove his baton where it really belonged.

“Sir, with all due respect I—!”

“I don’t want to hear it!” And there it was. That arrogant, egotistical smirk he’d dealt with for the past few months of his life. “Your arrogance will get you nowhere in this business and so long as you don’t start practicing according to what I need, I’ll see no use for it.” That same smirk that broke him every time he thought he was close. Every time he thought he’d done something right.

Every time he thought he was good enough.

The anger washed out of him and was quickly replaced by a carefully constructed mask of indifference. He felt like he couldn’t breathe. He reminded himself he needed to breathe but nearly choked again when he looked up to meet a polite, and candy sweet smile.

“Until then, you are dismissed.”

He didn’t register his own response and only felt his stomach churn against him as he noticed his windpipe closing around him. He still managed to pack up his violin and make his way to the doors, pace increasing along the way because he had to make it out the doors, and because he knew what was was coming. He had to make it out the doors because he knew he was—!

He collapsed outside the entrance gate, safely outside of view, while gripping it with all the strength he could muster and only hoped he wouldn’t have to clean the blood and grime out from his shirt again. He resisted the urge to hit at and punch the brick wall, if only for the passerbyers currently eyeing him wearily, and felt his teeth clench instead.

He desperately bit at his lips trying to stop them from shaking. Barely flinching at the taste of blood, too used to it to care at all. His hands were shaking, even with their tight grip on the wall ripping into his skin—as if that was enough to steady him. He was forcing himself to breathe, and even as he clenched his eyes shut to complete darkness and inhaled for the hundredth time that past minute, it wasn’t enough.

It took everything in him _not_ to scream.

Kudou Shinichi was twenty-two years old, and his dream was to become a member of the Tokyo Metropolitan Symphony Orchestra.

 

* * *

 

“Incompetent, irrational... ugh! What’s arrogant about knowing when I’m right?” He kicked the trash can beside him, promptly regretting it due to the unfortunate pain thereafter. “What’s his end goal anyways? To butcher Sibelius?”

His phone rang but he didn’t answer it—steadfastly resisting the urge to chuck it at the nearest wall. He was sure it was Ran anyways, wishing him a happy birthday from America or something, and that was definitely not a reminder he needed right now. He also didn’t feel like faking utter joy at the moment, so he was glad in his decision of hanging up. As much as he knew she’d spite him for it later.

Although now he needed to stop thinking and just walk. The more he thought about the issue the more his legs wanted to give out beneath him, and he wasn’t eager to explain to anyone why he’d be sitting in the middle of the busiest road crossing in Tokyo.

Shibuya was a bustling crowd of noises and Shinichi hated it. Anywhere quiet was too far, his head hurt, his fingers itched—all in all, he was just barely resisting asking for directions to the nearest washing mashing to drown himself in.

Or a bar. He could definitely find a bar right now, get hammered, have a solid one on one with an inanimate object, and feel all his problems wash away...

Wasted sounded good, but waking up for early rehearsal came as priority and he felt his fingers itch again.

He should be practicing.

Shinichi found himself walking down a people depleted road, where only dimmed hues of neon banners and bars shown beside him, with the occasional passing of a drunkard or two. Sure he could hear the faint blast of club music ringing beside each very obvious joint—the bouncers were at least, in their whole black ensemble, bleach blond kind of deal—but he was still able to keep calm and watch the road ahead of him.

His eyes fell on a stumbling couple walking in his direction.

They looked completely hammered, laughing and stumbling over each other—each step faltering more than the last—and he was sure one of them was going to fall over. Well that, or make him go deaf by how obnoxious they were being. Completely unaware to his presence.

Carefree. They were smiling.

He shook his head. This was okay because he had his career and for the past few years that’s all he’d needed. Nobody could take that from him.

Although for some reason that only made him think of his career as a musician slowly pitfalling into an endless abyss of he’ll never be able to do it, and what exactly did it take to become a member of the symphony orchestra because apparently ten hours a day wasn’t cutting it—maybe he should start for twelve?

No, he couldn’t think about that.

He unlocked his phone screen. Shit, it was already close to midnight and he needed to catch the last train. Being forced to rent a hotel room wasn’t on his priority list this evening, and he couldn’t do a repeat of last time. Shinichi heaved out a heavy sigh and let his eyes drift back towards the couple who were just passing him.

They were talking about jazz; his lack of piano playing skills and her dreadful singing voice. The musician would’ve laughed had it not been for the melancholy holding him back.

Music was a burden to him. It was—he’d learned that. He used to be able to play constantly without ever feeling different about the fact. Maybe if he’d practiced more back then he wouldn’t be in this situation now. Maybe he’d still have his part, and maybe he’d still get recognized by the public, potentially scoring an audition.

Maybe he’d actually be considered a _damn_ good musician because god knows he puts in the work. Doesn’t he? Did he need to do more, did he need to... No, the last time he played for fourteen hours he couldn’t move his hands the next day. He’d been demoted to second violin to _balance the sound_ and he’d accidentally crashed his car. (Thankfully he showed up the next day with a bandaged head and nobody said anything). It’d taken him one extra month to get a seat again, but even then that was because the last guy moved to Europe and he was the only one who still knew the part.

He’d long since forgotten his own style, what was apparently too childish, not musical enough, the types of flourishes that should never be paired with concerto no. 5, why are you moving your bow like that and what the hell are you looking at, _the sky isn’t where your music is_ —!

Getting an audition only happens when people think you’re special.

They’d called him a prodigy, and look at him now. Stuck with the same people, in the same _damn_ chair with nothing to show for and—

He slumped against the wall, feeling his body shaking as he clenched his fists. He yanked his tie off and threw it to the ground, undoing the first buttons of his white button down forcefully. His breath was heaving out of him, and he couldn’t think straight. Was this what he’d been reduced to? Having a panic attack outside of some unknown club, at _god knows when_  on a _Monday_?

He was pathetic.

Maybe it was the lack of sleep that was talking, or food, or his pounding headache that went along oh so well with his short breathing.

Right, he needed to control that soon or he might just end up on the floor or in an ambulance or something. That’d only jeopardize his career.

Just as he started taking deep breaths a woman came careening outside the doors of what looked to be another club on the strip, frantically looking around until her eyes locked on Shinichi.

“There you are, BaKaito! You needed to be onstage twenty minutes ago and this is where you’ve been?!” She grabbed his arm, almost in a vice grip that reminded him a lot of Ran’s (bruising was still a fifty-fifty on this one). Dragging him along through the doors she glanced back, squinting her eyes as her face scrunched up.

Soft music, something like an oboe was playing and the mere sound was enough to peak Shinichi’s interest. The melodic high notes playing something unheard of for what he normally heard the instrument play. (Why was it...?)

“Damn it, why the hell are they starting?” Her voice gradually faded in Shinichi’s ears, focusing instead on the dimly lit hallway and plaques of all sorts lining the walls, detailing famous musicians and the like. The walls were like smoothed black granite, and he could bet running his fingers along the sides would make them go cold—neon lights reflecting over each surface.

It wasn’t until he stepped into the main area of the club that his eyes found a new focus.

“And don’t you dare have me find out you were out there playing with fireworks again,” she continued, and Shinichi flinched at her tone (definitely like Ran). Although personally he’d almost forgotten she was beside him.

There were strings playing with the oboe as well, but not a full orchestra like one would expect.

They reached the end of the hall and suddenly all he could see were spotlights shining on a small but filled stage. Strings laid out in chairs to the side, a drum kit, piano, and bass all nestled in the far left corner. The flash of silver sparkling from the lights...

She stopped in front of him but his eyes remained glued to the stage. “Plus, what in the name are you wearing...?”

Her rant fell short just as a dark, rich, and powerful tone rang through the building—as if freezing everything in place with its practiced warmth.

The slow-swing tempo of the current song slowly faded into the background as the instrument found control over the ensemble. Shining silver generously moved back and forth with the beat, somehow elegant with every tap of his foot. His hair was a mess on his head, but when compared to his dark blue button down, white pants and vest, red tie sort of combo he had going, he’d definitely be called colour blind before being sent in the direction of the nearest comb.

At least, that’s what Shinichi wished was the only thing on his mind.

Because he moved with confidence. And every note he played held something like a mesmerizing effect. Echoing through the crowded club like a single voice garnering the attention of a thousand people. Garnering his attention.

Even as the oboe rolled in again and the woman finally met his eyes, mouthing something like “You’re not Kaito”, he started walking closer to the stage.

The man continued to tap his foot. The silver of his alto saxophone dancing along each time in step, and then his eyes would close again and he’d begin playing the same thing.

But it was different.

It was so different. Even as it ended Shinichi continued to look up at the stage with the same amount of consideration as he had when he‘d first been hauled in. It took him a second to realize his breath had evened out on its own. The club was stuffy and packed, yet he was breathing clean air for the first time in what felt like years.

Just like how the man had stopped playing, eyes falling on Shinichi as if he were the only one in the room. Clearly he wasn’t, waiters and waitresses passing him with drinks for the large number of customers, yet even as they brushed his shoulders to get by, indigo remained sparkling underneath every light.

He was positive the silver had nothing on the blue he was seeing now.

Shinichi knew he was standing out being the only one near the stage not sitting, but he couldn’t help it, justly as the song ended and applause filled the room.

It wasn’t until the woman from before tapped him on the shoulder that he realized just where he was again. “Sorry I must have mistaken you for—”

“That was...” he stopped, realizing his mouth was falling slack, tripping on his own words and almost forgetting the woman was awaiting his response.

He didn’t have one though, and his eyes fell back towards the exit.

His first thought was he needed to go home. Practice, maybe sleep if time allowed it. But he—

He couldn’t be here. He _shouldn’t_ be here. This was a distraction he did not need. And what he did need was practice, and sleep and to wake up for early weekday rehearsal and to focus on what was important. Like his responsibilities.

She reached an arm out, most likely to shake him, but the fake smile was already on his face. She dropped her hand. 

“Sorry, I’ve got to go, but thank you for the show!” Her eyes were unreadable, but he didn’t have time to think.

He swiftly made his way to the exit leaving a mistified girl in his wake. Unrealizing of the pair of indigo eyes following his back, even as he rushed out the door.

 

* * *

 

A screeching sound blasted in his ears and his first thought was who in their right mind had the audacity to try and wake him this early in the morning.

He ran a hand through his notted hair, and threw a pillow over his head. The sound was blaring and blaring and he groaned first and outright because what the hell—!

Ah, none other than his alarm, so it seemed. Because it wasn’t the weekend. He had morning rehearsal.

He rolled out of his bed (or fell out) and took his time getting dressed as he contemplated where all of his socks had gone—tasting nothing but feeble depression and not enough alcohol as he brushed his teeth.

Finding a pair behind his couch, on his kitchen table, and in his dying potted plant, he rolled one of the sets on and dismissed the rest for further examination.

Shinichi eyed the clock on his stove wearily and decided against breakfast. For some reason he felt like shit, and food didn’t seem like his source of salvation at the moment.

He picked up his violin case, grabbed his jacket, and walked out the door leaving an empty household behind him.

He walked down the subway steps at a brisk pace, and kept in line following the early business men, while shoving a bagel down his throat. Okay, so maybe food and coffee had won in the end, but he’d really only needed the coffee. His grip tightened on his violin case as he attempted to eat through his bagel, juggling his coffee all the while.

He set his case down once he reached the platform, and sighed in relief at the chance to leisurely enjoy his meal—eyes drifting lazily over the passing crowds. Subways attracted all sorts of crowds during the early morning. Businessmen, artists, musicians much like himself... but more often than not, guys like black touque and beard combo over there.

His face immediately went blank, because the guy was staring—quite literally too—and Shinichi could feel the bite of bagel swallow much more heavily down his throat in annoyance. The guy was frowning at him, looking like he was at an internal debate on whether to shake his head or not. And while Shinichi thought this an inconvenient, it was more a question of what the hell was his _deal_?

The man gave him another dirty look as he took a second bite of his bagel and then turned on his heels to swiftly march away. Shinichi huffed.

He must have had a thing against bagels. (Maybe he should have gotten the croissant?).

The musician lifted his case as the train arrived and threw his napkin away, chugging his coffee down like there was no tomorrow and throwing the cup in the trash alongside it. He sighed as the doors closed behind him and reached into his back pocket to tug out his long forgotten phone. 

24 missed messages, and 12 missed calls. Surprisingly enough, Ran had only been half of them. For a second he thought he’d missed an event like his mother’s birthday, but that didn’t happen till... it was January still, right? Right, so a few more months. His fingers scrolled back to the start of Ran’s messages, and his breath halted with a sudden intake.

She was getting married. Eisuke proposed. Their wedding was going to be in June.

He felt a slight smile crack up on his face, but there was no real feeling to it. Just the sense that he needed to address the situation somehow, and if a fake smile could help he’d be sure to wear one.

It took his fingers too long to rest on the keys before he pocketed his phone again. Ignoring the other messages from his parents (his mother still loved to talk with Ran), Hattori and Kazuha alike (they were on their way as well, so he’d expect nothing less), and one Hakuba Saguru. Unexpected, but not something he needed to read at the moment.

The train reached his stop, and his feet drove him out the cars’ doors without a second thought. Suddenly his violin case felt a little heavier than before, and the thought of having to leave the country for a wedding in June made his stomach turn. He probably wouldn’t go, he had a career to maintain after all. Attending a childhood friend’s wedding couldn’t be considered important enough.

Or he just didn’t want to go.

He shoved his thoughts back, and walked a little faster up the stairs than usual. Letting his hands tighten around his case as he hauled it up every step.

The added weight felt like too much.

He carried his case with ease until he was approximately two blocks away from his rehearsal space and started for a sprint. He knew he shouldn’t have stopped at the mini café. His legs carried him far, but his headache was pounding against him with each added step. God, his body felt like it was only working so fast... he briefly wondered how that was going to affect his playing today.

Right, so he’d be exactly on time. Which was good because he was never late and this was only going to happen once. He wouldn’t stop at the café anymore. He’d play his best today. Nobody would think anything of it.

He rushed through the familiar gate, and through the tall wooden doors—feet silently carrying him at a fast pace. He slowed down once he reached the stage door, quickly composing himself as he directed his hand to the push of cold metal.

All eyes fell on him. The conductors baton sat frozen in the air, along with countless bows, and flutes, and everything that wasn’t supposed to be ready by this time but was, and Shinichi more so heard his breath leave him then felt it because the room was silent.

The door behind him closed with a large crash, and the conductor’s hand fell down to his side.

“As if yesterday wasn’t ruckus enough, you decide to show up halfway through rehearsal,” the man started, still standing on his podium. Shinichi stood frozen. “Don’t you understand we have a concert in only a matter of weeks? Does rehearsal mean so little to you that you’d bother to show up late above all else?”

He didn’t know what to say. He was on time. He was—a minute late, they couldn’t have started already, they wouldn’t have started already. Warm up lasted five minutes, he still had four, why were they...?

“We started an hour early today, Kudou-san.”

Shinichi felt his heart sink in his chest. He didn’t so much as move, he couldn’t move. He was frozen—not bothering to look at the pitying gazes or looks of indifference on the faces of those watching him. He could only see the eyes of disappointment in front of him, with no less sympathy to them than your average criminal. But he was no criminal.

Shinichi took a step forward but the man’s hand flew up in front of him. The violinist stopped his movement.

“If you think I’d allow you to participate in today’s rehearsal after the disrespect you’ve just shown me, Kudou-san, then I’d say you must think what we do here is elementary.” He stopped, pausing as he stepped down from the podium and approached—each step echoing in the open, silent auditorium. Long, silver ponytail swaying behind his head. “Or have you just not grown up at all since your apparent, prodigy days?”

His voice was a whisper but it cut deep nonetheless. The sentence set a fire in him, and his case nearly slipped out of his hand. He could yell, he could explain just how much he works, how much he tries, how much he’s better than before. Because he has changed! He’s better, he’s so much better... but would that even matter? (Was he just being delusional?)

Shinichi swallowed the lump in his throat, but the dryness in his voice couldn’t be fixed. “I’m sorry, sir. I wasn’t aware the time had—”

“Oh, you weren’t aware!” Shinichi felt his bangs shift against his head from the sheer force of the shout. “In that case, come right back! While we’re at it I might as well just hand you my baton and call it a day! Or perhaps I should get rid of all the other violins and just have you?” He smiled, and his grin felt something like daggers piercing skin. “Does that sound acceptable to you, Kudou-san?”

It was a rhetorical question.

“No, sir.”

“That’s right because this orchestra doesn’t revolve around you.” His voice was void of emotion. “It’s your job to listen, and to know. And if you can’t even do that,” he was close now, breathing right into the violinist’s ear, and Shinichi felt his hands and feet go cold. “Then how can I possibly consider you to be a priority member?”

There was a moment of silence before the conductor took a single echoing step back, followed by another, and went back to walking up the stairs and towards the podium.

“Go home, Kudou-san.” His voice was light and airy, and he didn’t even meet the violinist’s eyes as he raised his baton—the orchestra members raising their instruments in answer. “And I expect you to know all the parts for second once you’re back tomorrow... you know, to _balance_ the sound.”

Shinichi wasn’t really sure at what moment music flooded the auditorium, because he couldn’t really hear anything. His eyes were blurry and he wasn’t focusing because the words were stuck in his mind on repeat. _Second_. He’d be playing second at the year end concert.

He wasn’t honestly sure the moment he started stepping back, but as his back fell against metal that seemed colder than before, and the door pushed open behind him and closed in front of him slower than before, he realized in a blur of grey and as he dropped his case that he was standing in the hallway listening to the distant sounds of his charts.

The charts he’d be playing as a second.

The charts he’d be playing and not get recognized on.

The charts that had made his fingers bleed from how much he’d practiced them, and made his ears want to bleed from how much he’d heard them.

He picked up his case and ran much faster than he’d envisioned towards the bathroom.

Throwing up was never something he enjoyed, but it was a necessity at the moment because his stomach felt like it’d been flipped upside down. Along with his world, and everything he’d worked for, because who the hell was he to fuck up this bad and waste a few months’ progress in a day?

His grip on the toilet seat slackened, but his eyes were still wet and burning with unshed tears. This wasn’t worth crying over. Nothing ever was, because this was his mistake. He’d done this to himself and he shouldn’t be crying for himself either.

He brought his phone out and opened the messenger app, confirming his suspicions and only serving to make the urge to bang his head against the nearest wall stronger.

 **Hakuba**   **Saguru,**   **9:** **47pm:**

_Our rehearsal for tomorrow has been rescheduled for an hour earlier. He just notified us after you left. I’m sorry, Kudou-kun, please take care of yourself._

_Take care of yourself_. As if anyone cared anymore. He stood up on shaky legs and hastily moved to pick up his violin case. Eyeing his reflection in the mirror and seeing nothing but pale, sweat stricken skin, on top of under eye bags so dark they looked like smudged sharpy and reflected the amount of sleep he’d been getting perfectly.

No wonder he felt like shit. He sure looked like it too, and a part of his brain briefly suggested that as the real reason behind his getting kicked out—he looked like he’d woken up on the sidewalk after a particularly bad storm—but the logical side brushed the thought away.

He laughed, slowly, and choked. Sure, he thought he was intelligent to begin with, but thoughts like those were simply laughable. No wonder he was a mess at the moment. 

Heavy footsteps brought him out the door, and for a brief second he considered turning back towards the auditorium but knew nothing good would come of it.

He kept walking until he was clutching onto familiar brick, and walking alongside a familiar route he’d taken just the night before. A few more blocks and he’d be able to hear the faint sound of jazz music.

He turned the other way.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried the violin for like two months before I decided to just stick with jazz. Please bear with me, Kaito’s introduction will be in due time. (Side note, if anyone gets triggered by the severe lack of concert master, I’ll acknowledge the fact that in this case the conductor has all the control and it’s basically a single dictatorship of tragedy).
> 
> If any has questions or constructive criticism feel free to ask/comment. Comments are much appreciated in any form as well though :D


	2. Autumn Leaves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs featured/mentioned:
> 
> \- Autumn Leaves by Miles Davis and Cannonball Adderley

It used to be that first pieces were exciting, the challenge that always came along with them making him reach for one each time. But not now. Not when he was forced to play underneath a man who held the music over his head like a ball and chain.

Second was a whole other story.

Each note grinded on his ears, but he reminded himself to stay calm and not let his own personal feelings interfere with the music.

He set his bow and violin down, instead reaching for the cup of coffee situated on the table to his right. Books lined the walls around him, mostly just collecting dust nowadays.

As if on cue, his alarm went off, and this time he checked his phone. A few more messages, but by this point it seems Ran had probably given up. He had too.

Running his fingers along the railing of his stairs, and straightening his dress shirt, he was out the door with an even heavier step than the day before. Although, this wasn’t for rehearsal, this was for practice. He figured he’d head to the rehearsal space and get in a few extra hours there during his day off. Hakuba had also texted him three more times since yesterday. Nothing important.

He was slower in making his way down the subway stairs, and could almost feel his headache coming back at full force when a loud announcement rang clear as day in his ear. He set his violin case down, and rubbed forcefully at his temples. He probably looked pretty deranged, and his suspicions were confirmed when he opened his eyes on the same guy from the other day. Giving him a familiar dirty look that Shinichi rolled his eyes at. Dark, grey hooded eyes falling like a shadow over his frown.

Stepping onto the train and making sure to get a spot where he could lean comfortably against the train wall, he set down his case once again and leaned all his weight on the bar behind him. He wouldn’t close his eyes, no, but he could at least pretend he was getting some rest. Each bit of tension easing out of him as the train passed stop after stop, until finally he straightened, and rubbed at his eyes. 

When he opened them, however, it was to a scream from a fellow passenger and a man rushing out the doors with a black case in hand.

 _His violin_.

Shinichi immediately followed suit, stumbling out the doors and pushing past the crowd with newly awakened adrenaline, while his eyes struggled to stay on the fast running figure.

It was the man from before. Black greasy hair, and ugly looking frown—he’d been on the platform two days before and seemingly then had decided Shinichi be his next victim. Or in this case, Shinichi’s violin.

Chasing after the guy was taxing. Shouting after him was even more taxing. Shibuya was busy with people even this early in the morning and the crowds were definitely getting bigger as they made their way further into the heart of the district. So far Shinichi had nearly been hit by two cars, but at the moment his violin was priority. He was not losing his violin. He could not.

His thighs were showing their complaints by burning, and his head was doing similar things by just generally feeling like a hammer to glass, but he was catching up. Slowly, but steadily.

The man kept shooting him glances over his shoulder, and he was definitely the one in better condition of the two. He’d probably ate before this as well.

Shinichi pinpointed where they were heading, and at first it was basically in a circle, but now the thief was passing familiar clubs and they were blocks away from the train station. Shinichi’s breath was running out all too fast and his head was definitely passed mush at this point, his eyes weren’t adjusting properly... the guy was suddenly metres ahead of him.

In short, he was losing him.

Shinichi was falling behind. His violin falling out of view. He shouldn’t have been this tired, but he was. He was running on a few hours of sleep, and a cup of coffee. By any right, he should have passed out five minutes into the chase. It’d been six.

His feet carried him around the next corner but that’s when he turned to find no figure there at all. Only a car passing by on an otherwise deserted street.

He was sure his knees were going to be bruised by how hard he collapsed to the ground—not bothering to care about how his black gloves were now painted brown from the dirt, or how badly he kept telling himself to continue his chase.

He could very well scream right then and there because the one thing he could rely on to always be there for the years he’d started using it was now gone.

He cradled his head in his hands and felt his lips shake uncontrollably, he was positive now he was about to lose it. He’d have to find a new violin in less than a day if he wanted to make rehearsal tomorrow, but like hell any other violin would match up to the same quality as his Stradivarius—and would another even matter when all his memories of actually enjoying the instrument had been played on what was now gone?

Funny enough the thief probably didn’t even know how much the case in his hand was worth.

If anything that made Shinichi dig his fingers into the concrete harder, and his teeth clench with every bit of pain he chose to ignore. He was a failure, he was never going to make it, he was—

The sound of a throat clearing in front of him had him bouncing back on his heels with much more force than anticipated. The fall on his back was the ungracefull result of just that.

He winced, sitting up just in time for a hand to land on his shoulder, as well as another adding warmth and soft pressure to the support of his back. His eyes flickered up and through his bangs he made out something so unexpected and so completely blinding, Shinichi was sure he’d hit his head a little too hard.

Brown locks twisted in messy clumps on his head, and underneath it all was a smile so bright and so surreal Shinichi was sure he must have been looking at the wrong person, but dark indigo eyes rested only on him. He wasn’t mistaken, the guy was looking at him, and his face brightened close to a thousand suns when Shinichi met his eyes.

“Sorry, thought you could use a hand. Concrete’s not usually my go to for seating arrangements, but I suppose we all have our reasons.” Shinichi’s first thought was to scoff, because who in their right mind would willingly start up a conversation with—what he assumed—looked like a man on the verge of screaming in the middle of a sidewalk. Well he _was_ that man, but that was besides the point.

He was definitely gaping and the man was quick to smirk, brushing a warm and calloused finger across Shinichi’s cheek (most likely wiping at some form of dirt that was settled there). He could feel himself shiver. “Kuroba Kaito, amateur musician. Although, I wouldn’t exempt being referred to as your knight in shining armor either, darling.”

“What do you...” Suddenly Shinichi’s eyes focused past swirling indigo and settled on a familiar black case sitting idly beside the man’s legs. “How?”

The musician laughed, and sprung back on the balls of his feet letting go of the violinist in favour of throwing a thumb behind his shoulder. “I caught the guy you were chasing sneaking down that alley, and figured it was my long lasting _duty_ to aid a fellow musician in need.”

Shinichi raised an eyebrow at the display of what had to be four rolls of duck tape, taping the thief to a wall in the back alley on his left.

As if reading his mind the musician laughed a little nervously. “I had duck tape on me at the time so...” Shinichi’s expression didn’t change. “Okay, so maybe I had a lot of duck tape on me, but who’s to say I can’t carry duck tape?”

The man stood up from his crouch and put both hands leisurely behind his head, smiling. “Plus you’re not one to judge. I’m the guy who saved your strad after all~.”

Shinichi’s eyes narrowed at that. “How did you know it was a Stradivarius?”

The guy’s grin only grew and Shinichi was now positive he’d hit his head sometime during the chase. “Nobody chases a violin like his life depends on it for nothing. Although, I doubt our thief had expected that.” His grin turned back towards the struggling bundle of duck tape and his eyes sparkled with a certain amount of mischief that Shinichi couldn’t tear his own away from. 

It was silent for a moment before the self proclaimed musician extended a hand towards him, and held an expectant yet amused smile. Shinichi just stared.

“Normally when someone extends their hand to you, you’re supposed to take it, Mr...”

“Kudou—Kudou Shinichi,” he said, grabbing onto the hand in front of him. It was still warm.

Something in his head clicked as he stood up, standing on the same level as the other had him remembering the very same indigo he was lost in now. It’d been the night before—the jazz club. He was the saxophone. Shinichi’s eyes must have widened in realization because Kuroba chuckled.

“Ah, so you do remember.” He sounded all too amused. “Figures, since nobody can forget my wonderful playing that soon, am I right, Kudou-san?”

He winced at the appellation. “Please, uh... call me Kudou.”

“Call me Kaito, then.”

The violinist raised a brow, and made an action of opening his mouth. “Thank you for rescuing my violin, _Kuroba_.” Whereas most would take his tone as cold or disheartening, Kuroba felt the need to laugh, brushing a hand through his knotted hair (which mostly lost its effect once his hand got stuck partway through).

“You’re a tough one to crack aren’t you, Kudou?”

“And why would I need to be cracked, Kuroba?” he retorted, frown settling itself easily onto his features. Kuroba didn’t so much as flinch, and if anything the action had him stepping even closer. 

“That’s for me to know, and for you to find out, _Kudou_.”

Shinichi snorted out a laugh, but stopped himself in face of Kuroba’s bright grin. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Like what?” the musician asked innocently.

“Like I’m something worth smiling over.” Shinichi ran the words back over in his head and realized he hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Especially when Kuroba’s grin started to soften.

“Anyone as beautiful as you is worth smiling over Kudou, you just don’t realize it.”

He’d have to add extremely flirtatious to the list of things Kuroba was—although he’d already guessed that from the start—but what was more, was for however long Shinichi had been standing/sitting on the sidewalk with him, his smile had never gone away.

Even as Kuroba handed him his violin case, and promised to take care of the thief still taped to the wall—all the while making Shinichi promise to come to one of his shows sometime—his smile never dimmed.

And as Shinichi raced past him at a speed chosen to avoid any further small talk, he more so felt than saw indigo eyes smiling at his back as he rounded the corner out of the other musician’s sight.

His smile was nice, though Shinichi was pretty sure he wouldn’t be seeing Kuroba any time soon. That’s just how these sorts of things went for him nowadays.

 

* * *

 

The violinist winced a bit at the feeling of taped fingers on strings, but he had no other way to mask the sudden uncomfortable sting emerging from his raw skin.

He set his violin down and packed it away. Putting gloves over his hands to hopefully hide any discolouring (bruising), and of course the tape (too much of it) surrounding each fingertip. His technique may have been getting a bit frantic. He’d need to fix that.

Walking out his door, he’d decided on taking a much earlier train, at a much earlier time so as not to be late. If rehearsal was on time today he’d be approximately—four hours early. So he’d have some extra time to warm up. (He wasn’t taking any chances).

His steps felt a bit wobbly stepping on and off the platforms, but he probably felt better than he looked. That was always the case, right?

Once he arrived, he stood in front of the metal door for a much longer period of time. He couldn’t hear anything from inside the auditorium—it’d been twenty minutes—and holding his breath he pushed open the door into a completely dark space. He breathed out a sigh of relief, and felt his shoulders relax.

Turning on the stage lights, he made his way towards his usual spot but stopped only steps away.

Right, he was second now. Wrong row.

He made the executive decision to stand for the time being, and set his case down off to the side, opening it with all the grace of having done it thousands of times. Disposing of his keys and phone along with it, he positioned himself. Music wasn’t even needed at this point because every second part had been memorized. Every first part was also memorized. He got his music out anyways.

He had four hours to practice them on top of the hours he’d practiced the night before (or day, since he wasn’t really sure when he’d slept). It wasn’t much, but it’d pass the time until the rest arrived. Whenever they arrived.

It took him only the first hour to get lost in the task of his music.

After five hours he put his bow down, and sat on one of the benches off to the stage. He probably should have checked his phone—he wasn’t keeping track of time—but he wasn’t going to rely on Hakuba to tell him anything. He was a priority member and he’d show his dedication, all on his own.

His head was settled resting against his cheek when he jolted awake to the sound of the door opening. He stood up shakily, and struggled to dust himself off, eyes adjusting while making out a head of blond hair rushing over to him. And he was tall, about Shinichi’s height, blurry too...

Brown eyes stopped just off the stage to stare up at the musician. His eyes were confused at first, a mix of disbelief and awe, but slowly morphed into worry. Like he had reason to be concerned. It made Shinichi sick.

“How long have you been here? Why didn’t you answer my texts?” the blond suddenly demanded, expression stern but his eyes spelt concern. As if.

“Does it matter? I’m here aren’t I...” his eyes fell over Hakuba’s person and he blinked once. Twice. It was with a blank stare that he realized the blond wasn’t in uniform. His appearance was casual, if not completely underdressed for rehearsal. “What are you wearing?” he asked, not caring of the bite in his tone or the thinning of his lips.

There was a sudden but not unexpected pause.

“Kudou...” he mumbled, looking almost pained as Shinichi felt his own shoulders stiffen. He bit his lip.

“Hakuba, why aren’t you in uniform,” he tried again. Not so much a question but a confirmation. He could tell the other man didn’t want to say it. He didn’t even have his violin on him.

“Kudou, practice was cancelled today. Emails were sent to all—”

“Priority members, am I correct?” he finished, fully well knowing it was his own fault for not checking his phone. Five hours. He hadn’t bothered to take one second to check, and he’d been here for _five hours_. Fully well knowing he’d receive a text from Hakuba as oppose to an email himself.

“Yes.” Without missing a beat he grabbed for his case and headed for the door. He was just barely off the stage before Hakuba grabbed at a gloved hand, only serving to make Shinichi wince as the material slid off.

“Hakuba, I swear to god—” he stopped himself once he realized Hakuba was gaping, staring at nothing but his hand and the damage playing for so long had caused.

“At least let me drive you home,” he started softly, but that did nothing to stop the bubbling anger Shinichi could feel brewing. “It’ll save time and at least then we can—”

“What time, Hakuba! You mean the five hours I spent waiting around for an orchestra that I should’ve known wouldn’t show up?” His hand ripped away from the blond’s grip without much effort, and he didn’t so much as wince. “This is my problem. Not yours. Now if you’d excuse me, I’d like to be on my way now. You know, to practice and all that.”

He turned back around towards the door and heard Hakuba sigh behind him. “Call Ran, she misses you!”

The door opened much louder than he’d wanted, but he didn’t stick around to hear it shut.

It took him close to an hour to get home, and when he finally did, it was to an empty house where he allowed himself to scream in peace.

He showed up to rehearsal the next day and resisted the urge to throw up as the conductor’s smug grin locked onto him. He continued playing as if nothing was wrong and everything was fine, except for it wasn’t and he didn’t even bother trying to smile as teeth clenched into a familiar tension.

It wasn’t worth being another telltale fake anyways.

 

* * *

 

He spotted the saxophonist exactly a week later on the street corner just in front of his train station. He was busking, not something unsurprising for a musician, but playing music like this, drawing in a small crowd, Kuroba was anything but unsurprising.

Better yet, the moment Shinichi moved to walk down the subway stairs the sax stopped its short rendition of some fast bebop chart, and he could feel familiar eyes latching onto his figure.

“Kudou!” the saxophonist called, ignoring the protests from his own crowd members in favour of catching the fast walking violinist (he’d nearly made it half way down the stairs too).

He stopped, much to the displeasure of the businessmen behind him, and turned around on the stairs to see shining silver, and white because his grin was basically taking up his whole face.

“Kudou,” he said much quieter and smoother (rather fond?), and it begged the question if Kuroba knew just how differently he pronounced his last name than anyone else. It felt precious on his lips, careful, as if his name was something to wonder about each time he said it.

“Kuroba,” Shinichi replied, quickly making his way back up the stairs after getting half elbowed by another stair user he was blocking. Kuroba grinned once he made it up, and put a warm t-shirt clad arm around his shoulders.

The material was thin, and soft, and scooped quite low on the saxophonist’s neck and shoulders but it matched the sunny weather they had out today. Charcoal grey shirt on white pants—Shinichi was starting to think the guy had some sort of attachment to the colour white.

He himself was roasting in his white dress shirt and tie and black dress pants, but he wouldn’t mind standing in the sun for a little while longer. Kuroba had that effect after all.

“Funny meeting you again, darling,” he laughed easily, bringing them back towards Kuroba’s makeshift stage (complete with drum kit, piano, and what looked to be a bass). “For a second I’d worried you’d forgotten about me.” His frown, albeit mocking, still did something to tangle around Shinichi’s stomach. He brushed the expression off with a scoff—he could humour him.

“Oh, _that’s_ right, you’re _duck tape guy_  from the other day! How could I _possibly_ forget about the endless supply of duck tape you seemed to carry?” Shinichi felt a smug smirk make its way onto his face by the look of complete surprise on Kuroba’s.

“Darling, was that sarcasm I just detected? And a joke alongside it?” Shinichi rolled his eyes. “Sorry, sorry, it’s just not everyday I see you so relaxed. Did something happen while I was gone?” Shinichi set his case down beside him, but kept a hand on the handle. Neck going a little stiff. Other than a complete setback in his career? He shouldn’t be, to say the least.

“You stopping me as I was trying to go home, for one...” He frowned. “Oh wait, you’re here.” The musician laughed, and Shinichi wondered if he replied with that smile to every stranger he met.

“But for good reason, wouldn’t you say, Kudou?” The violinist raised a brow as the saxophonist gave him a thorough once over. “Do you happen to play piano, my dear violinist?”

Shinichi’s eyes narrowed and he was sure the saxophone was planning something. _Also how did he_ —? “...I do.” Beaming in response, Kuroba grabbed the violin case from out of his hand—much to Shinichi’s sudden horror—and disposed of it beside the public piano.

“I do hope you’ve learned some jazz in your day.” As if to demonstrate, he quickly played a small lick of some jazz song on the piano. “How do you feel about Autumn Leaves?”

Shinichi deadpanned.

“Even people who don’t play jazz know how to play Autumn Leaves,” he grumbled, settling himself down on the piano and listening to the musician’s quiet chuckle. 

“Then this should be no trouble for you.” He smiled back at him brightly and Shinichi felt himself sink further into the wooden bench. “Are you ready darling?”

“Wait, I didn’t agree to this.”

“Sure you did.”

“No really, I have stuff to do.”

“Please?”

Looking into his eyes was a mistake. (This was a mistake). The violinist sighed.

“Is E Minor alright?” Kuroba nodded his head, completely overriding the musician’s tired sigh with his own energetic pulse. He turned back to look at the man jumping on drums, and the girl already handling the bass to its upright position.

Kuroba smirked, and Shinichi could feel his own face brighten as Kuroba’s fingers started to snap. “Whenever you’re ready, darling. You start us off.”

Grinning to himself Shinichi threw his hands down lightly, and started on a continuous intro pattern, rolling his eyes as Kuroba cooed, “Ooh, Miles Davis? Seems you know more than you let on, my _dear_ violinist.”

He started lightly tapping his foot, looking over his shoulder to see Kuroba smiling onto his mouth piece, and playing the intro notes looking like an idiot. Shinichi caught the small chuckle from the musician as he turned back to face the piano, as well as the perfectly timed cut off from the drums.

The saxophone came in for the melody and a shiver alongside it. Even playing in open air, Kuroba made it sound like each breath he took was edging the audience on, each cut off was keeping his attention. The way he was moving back and forth right behind Shinichi wasn’t helping either.

Much like how he began his solo, and made Shinichi’s ears strain to keep up with the amount of notes he was playing. Perfect pitch had nothing on Kuroba Kaito’s playing. Shinichi was almost one hundred percent sure he was playing outside of the key for a split second too, but it still sounded good. It sounded so, so good.

The crowd must have agreed because it was much larger than before. Kuroba was playing like he was a completely different player than what Shinichi’d seen passing by the subway’s front. Shinichi was almost positive the musician could wip out Giant Steps if he so pleased.

His solo was finished and the bassist immediately took over, Shinichi played softer on his hands and mindlessly looked over his shoulder to see Kuroba smilling at him. Not unlike the first time he’d seen his smile, but also not familiar either. There was extra warmth there, and Shinichi wasn’t sure if it was his heart or stomach flipping—he turned his head back around so fast he felt his face heat up from the movement.

What Shinichi wasn’t expecting however was for Kuroba to silently sit beside him, so their shoulders were touching and they were facing opposite directions. His breath was hot in Shinichi’s ear as he whispered, “You’re doing great, darling.”

Shinichi’s hand slipped on the next chord but quickly recovered, not without a quiet chuckle from the musician behind him. The bastard.

The bassist finished and Shinichi readied himself for a quick moment of hell. He wasn’t used to soloing on anything, but he was sure his ears could take him there.

He weaved through patterns, and chords until the sax came back in, with an added fury of sound. Smiling at the added energy, Shinichi happily dropped his fingers on the next chords, getting a little more creative with it all the while.

Kuroba leaned back against his back just before stopping and Shinichi jumped a little, although his fingers moved across the piano on their own accord. Feeling Kuroba’s muscles twitch against him as he soloed once more, using the whole piano to his advantage and relishing in the newfound warmth on his back.

Kuroba joined in just before Shinichi ended it, and the song left both musicians panting against each other—smiles unknowingly spreading across each other’s faces. The crowd cheered and Shinichi was reminded of where he was, getting up all too fast and forgetting he had a saxophonist leaning on him. Kuroba stumbled a little and turned to give him a playful glare, Shinichi responded with a smirk of his own.

“Your skills are quite marvelous, Kudou.” He leaned in closer, and Shinichi eyed him with distaste. “You aren’t hiding any other hidden talents are you, darling?”

“And your style changed half way through the song.” Shinichi smirked and Kuroba raised a brow. “Why is that?”

Kuroba’s eyes seemed to rise to the challenge and he shrugged, mindlessly tugging on his neck strap. “Who knows? Maybe I’m just that talented.” He took a seat beside the piano and proceeded to play some complicated jazz lick. Shinichi snorted. “What, with the whole multiple instruments, insane air support, good looks kind of deal.”

His grin was manic and Shinichi suddenly had the urge to lean in closer, if not to see just how close he could get to that blinding, white grin that took over half the idiot’s face. And his skin looked tanned, and soft, and definitely had some sort of natural glow to it that he couldn’t pinpoint because he was positive if he got any closer he’d feel—

Shinichi would have liked to say that he didn’t squeak, but with him now on the floor, on his ass, in a position quite unlike graceful and good looking, he didn’t have much dignity left anyways. Kuroba’s endless laughter wasn’t helping his case either.

“Shut up and help me up already,” he grumbled and Kuroba obligingly lent a hand.

“Not my fault you ran into me,” he laughed, pulling the violinist up and aiding in patting down the dust off his shirt.

Shinichi swatted at his hands. “Ran into? You’re clearly the one who moved first!” His face was starting to heat up from the embarrassment of it all which only made Kuroba laugh harder.

“I’d hardly call leaning forward an inch the first move, darling,” he smirked, and Shinichi frowned.

“Leaning forward...?” He moved to collect his violin case. Unsurprisingly the saxophonist was right in front of him when he turned back around. Shinichi took a step back and clutched his case to his chest. “You—you...”

Kuroba took another step forward. “I...?”

“You kissed me!” he yelled, attempting to push the musician away from him with his case, but Kuroba grabbed it from him. Shinichi frowned, and the sax player looked victorious. 

“A kiss on the cheek is hardly as scandelous as you make it sound, darling,” he smirked out.

Shinichi could feel himself stalling, although it was easy enough to stomp on the musician’s feet and grab his case back, all with a single huff of air—and maybe a smile at the sound of a pouting saxophonist.

“Ah, darling! Wait!” He stopped before he could reach the stairs of the subway and turned back to see the man cradling his foot, and wearing a pout that looked so good on him yet so bad that Shinichi could feel his insides shudder.

“I’m onto you, Kuroba.”

He met his eyes, and watched as indigo softened, and its sparkle relight into what looked like a galaxy of its own. “Come to my show next week—Saturday. I host these little shows every weekend at that same club, and I’d love for you to come again so I—”

“Sure, Kuroba.” He turned back around but was stopped by the same pleading voice from before.

“Promise?” He didn’t bother to turn around, simply walking faster towards the stairs.

“I’ll try my best, Kuroba. Now if you’ll let me—” his phone rang in his pocket. “I need to take this.” He hurried out, and continued down the steps. Only picking it up once he ran onto the train, whose doors had been closing, and finished catching his breath. “This is—”

“ _I need to hear you say it, darling_.” He had no clue when Kuroba had had the chance to pickpocket him, but it seems the musician’s hands were nimbler than he thought.

“Kuroba, when did you—”

“ _Ah, now darling no need to question my skills when you know very well how talented I am_ ,” Shinichi snorted, and the woman standing on his left raised an eyebrow, he turned towards the doors. “ _Because I can do much more if it means seeing your delightful and magnificent and wonderful_ —”

“Fine! Just, cool it with the adjectives. Please!” It was a whisper but loud all the same. He could feel his face heating up.

A breath of air, much like a sigh, came through the receiver. “ _I’m waiting_.” It was Shinichi’s turn to sigh.

Holding the phone closer to his ear and trying his hardest to keep his voice low, he whispered, “I promise, okay?”

A huff of delight. “ _Promise and warm wishes received, my darling violinist_.” He could practically hear his grin from over the phone. He imagined it would look something like the lady’s standing beside him on the train—Shinichi glared. “ _I hope to see you soon_ ~!”

“Right.”

Ending the call, the musician heaved a sigh before tugging his violin closer. This was not going to end well for either of them.

He buried his head in his hands as a grin spread wide across his face.

 

* * *

 

“ _Kudou-san, bars one-twenty-five and one-thirty-six_. _Tell me, does it say to change tempo or was that just your own bright idea?_ ”

He was on time. He was always on time. He practiced with a metronome. He had it right in front of him.

“ _I was following you_.”

What was he talking about? Why was he always calling him out? What was the difference between him and the others? Was there a big difference, was the skill level just that different? Sure he’d been accepted at a much younger age as per the usual, but so had Hakuba. He didn’t even know Hakuba’s name. Why did he know his name?

“ _If you were following me_ , _then why did I feel the need to stop the ensemble for your sake_ , _Kudou-san_?”

(I honestly couldn’t tell you.)

He grabbed for his glass of water and downed it in one go, coughing up half the glass and letting it soak into his rolled up sleeves, bandaged fingers. He was out of excuses. He was out of ways to cope and he felt like he was drowning in his own effort. Sleep was nonexistent, but it’d always been like that. The nausea was new, but he was used to it at least.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe there was an error he wasn’t seeing, he needed to be better in other ways. He had always been the problem.

He’d been trying for years to fix it.

The violinist let his stand fall as his weight dropped down beside the cold metal. Sheet music falling leisurely—slowly, feather like—on top and around him as he fell to the ground. Wooden floor panels beneath him and books all around him, now scattered papers as well. He stared up at the high cealing, violin still gripped tightly in his out stretched hand.

When did it come to be like this?

(...It’d take him awhile, but eventually he would get back up. He always got back up).

Shinichi resumed his practice five minutes later, metronome in front of him, music along with it.

He’d already made it this far.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another one. (Yay! Kaito!!!)
> 
> Comments and the like are much appreciated :D


	3. Just The Two Of Us / It’s Always You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs featured/mentioned:
> 
> \- Take Five by Dave Brubeck  
> \- Just The Two Of Us by Grover Washington Jr.  
> \- It’s Always You by Chet Baker  
> \- I’m a Fool to Want You by Passport Bar Quartet

 

Are u excited for tonight, cuz I am!!! (* >ω<)ღවꇳවღ I swear darling u will luv it (´ω｀*)

 

                                                                                                              Jazz kids are all pampered and receive too much love.

 

Text me! Love me! I need all your love and devoted attention!

 

                                                                                                                                                             Why are you like this.

 

Would u believe me if I said u make me crazy? (／≧ω＼)(・ωｰ)～☆ღゝ◡╹)ノ♡

 

                                                                                        I take no responsibility in your insanity. You were crazy from the start.

 

Ah, but darling u missed the vital piece of info

 

                                                                                                                                                                    And what is that?

 

I’m crazy for u boo (´ε｀ )♡ლ(･ω･*ლ)(⌒.−)＝★

 

                                                                                                                                                                  I regret everything.

 

* * *

 

Kuroba’s club was the same bustling crowd as the few weeks before and Shinichi was left fussing with his tie at the entrance. So much for a quite evening, but he supposed it’d be an interesting change up. 

Interesting especially when he was grabbed by the arm again. And damn, that hurt just as much as the last time.

“Ow, ow, ow!” They we’re halfway through the entrance when the lady let go of his arm, her eyes a personal fury of their own, and Shinichi could barely get a word out in their wake.

“If you think that you can just escape me for the second time today, then you are wrong Kuroba—” her eyes widened just as her grip loosened on a firm, “ _Kaito_.”

“Hello, my dearest Aoko, lovely of you to restrain my date for this evening.” Shinichi jumped a little when a hand snuck itself around his waist. He smacked Kuroba’s arm for good measure. The lady—Aoko—smirked (albeit still very baffled).

“You’re not Kaito,” she said delicately, as if he was suddenly going to turn into the saxophonist. She picked lightly at his coat jacket. Kuroba glared.

“No he is not, and I’ll have you know Shinichi here—”

He stomped on the musician’s foot. “ _Kudou_.”

“Right, ahem, _Kudou_... and you have met before.” Kuroba finished with a smile, leading them both towards the stage.

Her face lit up as she followed, and Shinichi smiled politely. “Right! You’re that runner from a few gigs back!” 

Shinichi felt his eyebrow twitch. Kuroba linked his arm with his and whispered longingly (aka sarcastically), “Well, we can’t have it all, darling.”

Shinichi nodded his head and the woman extended a hand. “Wonderful to finally meet you then, Kudou-san.”

“Just Kudou’s fine, if you wouldn’t mind.”

“Kudou it is then.” Her smile was as bright as the sun and for some reason he couldn’t help but be reminded of Ran. It was nice.

“I’m Nakamori Aoko,” she continued, and her now poisonous smile found its way onto Kuroba, “This _idiot’s_ manager, and I’d be happy to get you a seat.” Her eyes fell to the arrangement of tables on the floor, and her eyebrows tilted a bit in aggravation when no open seat could be spotted. Kuroba laughed and pulled Shinichi closer. (Kuroba was definitely a physical contact type of guy, that was for sure).

“No need, Aoko. He’s playing with me.” As if the grin wasn’t enough, Kuroba hopped onto the stage acting like the metre-some gap was nothing and his dress pants took no toll. He extended a hand and Shinichi just glared.

Nakamori-san was definitely doing the same, and Shinichi made a point of walking to the stairs and stepping up each one, one leg in front of the other. Kuroba pouted.

Once he was on the stage however, Kuroba manhandled him onto the piano. Shinichi mentally shrugged, and Nakamori looked baffled from her spot on the floor.

“You do realize what you’re signing up for, right?” she asked, yelling a bit over the patrons’ many voices, as if Shinichi didn’t already know he was playing music with an egotistical duck tape wielding maniac. Her smile was definitely two parts shit eating. “Seriously I’ve heard him play take five over and over again because he couldn’t understand how counting in five in his head was more enjoyable than four. What sane person does that?”

“Not necessary, Aoko!” Kuroba groaned through gritted teeth. “But darling, If you would, I’d love to have you.” He was back beside the piano, with his hands wrapped around Shinichi’s, and the violinist was starting to wonder when the last time he’d held someone’s hand was. He glared nonetheless.

“Kuroba, you’re persuading me to play piano. Not to have a forbidden affair at the duchess’s dubutante ball.” Kuroba laughed and draped his arms across the pianist’s shoulders.

“And should you ever need a candidate to have such a forbidden affair with, I’ll be first in line,” he purred, all hot breath that was doing some smouldering action against Shinichi’s skin. He’d probably need to take a very lengthy breath once he managed to push the saxophonist off of him. “... _Darling_.”

Instead Nakamori-san was the one to drag him off, and for a moment Shinichi was both grateful and a little horrified by her strength. Envying, mostly. She smirked at him. “Don’t worry, I’ve been practicing that move for a few years now. I’ll teach it to you when you get past the clingy stage.”

The band started up on a warmup, and Shinichi felt his hands trace along the piece of music in front of him. _Just The Two Of Us_. But more importantly, “There’s stages after clingy?” Nakamori proceeded to snort loudly and topple over laughing. 

Shinichi was sure he’d asked the wrong question when her only response was, “Multiple.” With her manic laughter carrying her off the stage and back to what he assumed was the managing office.

The start of the chart featured a written in part while the rest was just chords. He memorized the pattern with his fingers before nodding an understanding, he’d have to play it with a classical flare but he was sure the sax would fix that. He smiled over his shoulder and watched as Kuroba nodded, all dressed to the nines again with the same white outfit. Did the man have any sense of style? (But Shinichi would be a liar if he said Kuroba didn’t wear it like a second skin). 

With a tap of his foot, Kuroba had his silver Yanagisawa (was it custom?) across his neck and he was signaling the rest of the band.

The band was larger this time. He wouldn’t just be playing with a combo like before, but with a full sized big band. He focused more thoroughly on the weight underneath his fingertips. He could keep it light, let his fingers do the work. The bandages hidden higher up on his knuckles strained a little bit. His neck too...

Snapping his fingers, Kuroba started at a tempo just close to 100bpm and Shinichi’s ears focused on that, keys underneath his finger tips as the saxophonist started counting. “One, two— _one, two, three, four_ —!”

His fingers started to move, as if possessed, and he felt his stomach flutter when he came in, playing perfectly in time with the drums— _thud, thud thud, thud, thud thud_ —that reminded him of a heartbeat. He’d never heard this song before, but let his lips curve into a smile anyways. Moved his body closer to the piano—felt his feet touch petals that he barely needed to use at all. Right, because this was jazz, and mistakes were easy on the first take but also unnecessary.

It felt like he had too much to offer to make any mistakes as he was now.

The eighth bar was coming up and he was readying himself for the saxophone, the tune already playing over in his head. He could feel Kuroba behind him, could practically imagine him leaning in again like he had back then, and Shinichi briefly wondered what he had in store this time. If not the dark, smooth softness of his...

Voice. Because Kaito was singing. And his voice was beautiful.

“ _I see the crystal raindrops fall, and the beauty of it all, is when the sun comes shining through_ ,” he looked over his shoulder just as the saxophonist turned his eyes on him, and Shinichi melted. “ _To make those rainbows in my mind, when I think of you sometimes... I wanna spend some time with you_ ,

“ _Just the two of us_.” The drums kicked in and Shinichi snuck a glance watching as Kuroba moved skipping across the stage, mic in hand, gripping it as his saxophone lay forgotten but shimmering on his chest. “ _We can make it if we try_ ~!” Well, at least his voice can, Shinichi thought as he struggled with an Em7 back to a D#m7, and oh right he was supposed to be reading his music. God, and the band wasn’t even playing, this was all him and rhythm.

“ _Just the two of us_.” It came again, and was it just him or did Kuroba keep doing this thing with his voice that made him sound like Sinatra’s reincarnate? He couldn’t keep the smile off his face as he played everything following without even looking—he’d basically memorized the fundamentals at section A, and by now his fingers were moving on their own and Kuroba was looking at him and he was beaming at him and when was the last time he he’d felt something like this?

He turned back around as Kuroba finished his last phrase, but the heat on his face remained. The saxophonist continued rolling his phrases and catching each tone that made him sound like a natural born singer, and that he was. He must have been, because even when Shinichi knew close to nothing about jazz, he could tell this man could compete with Ella if he wanted to.

But just as the last chorus ended and Shinichi brought his fingers to a short stall, he listened intently to the quick clack of keys and laughter from the audience. Kuroba really knew how to put on a show. He brought up his instrument, and started on the decending melody. Each part a conversation in its own—a solo as he forced the rhythm section to hang on to his every note.

Then it ended all too quickly and Shinichi felt that same weight place itself on his fingers forcing them to dance. To follow through like a slow waltz after a particularly astounding flamenco.

He continued playing his part with the addition of a few extra flares, loving the applause from the audience. He smiled. Kuroba also managed to transport himself across the stage, and made him startle as he went in to lean against Shinichi’s back just as he started singing again. The added warm weight was something so foreign yet so familiar that he let himself lean against it. Whistles rang out through the crowd and the saxophonist laughed into the mic—his chuckle making itself known in ripples against Shinichi’s back—but he continued singing.

He continued singing even with the additional cowbell (Shinichi forgot that thing even existed), facing the audience and leaning into him even further with each higher note he reached (and god did he have range). Then he’d be gone, the feeling of warmth dissipating into a new found heat because the mic was back in its stand and Kuroba’s saxophone was out soloing for real this time.

He had nothing in front of him, only his ears as he picked up each chord and moved into every chord, and his confidence was unbelievable. He was a professional. He was one of the best in his business. He was breathtaking.

It wasn’t until he felt the last chord on his fingers, ringing out underneath the bright stage lights and shining instruments, and the sounds of applause from patrons attending for reasons much like his own (who wouldn’t want to see Kuroba play?). Or until he was left watching from a small table as Kuroba finished his gig and Nakamori-san laughed at him from the back that he realized it’d gotten late and he was still there. Listening, watching—entranced.

They were closing now, he was sure. Chairs were getting moved onto tables, the band had vacated and he was left watching from his small table as Kuroba fiddled with the equipment and removed his saxophone to rest it on a nearby stand.

His eyes were hazy, and he felt slightly giddy when Kaito looked his way and grinned, still as bright as he had when they first met. Shinichi smiled lazily.

The musician approached, hips moving with him and his eyes a clairvoyant indigo that shifted from colour to colour, he leaned down across the table. Shinichi took his time to blink slowly, but the musician simply extended a hand. He turned an amused glare on Kuroba.

“Join me, darling?” he asked, doing this half lidded thing with his eyes that had Shinichi staring.

He took his hand soundlessly and watched as Kuroba lifted him from his chair and pressed a lingering kiss on his knuckles, he blanched and removed his hand. “ _Kuroba_.”

The musician laughed and turned instead to wrap a hand around his waist. Shinichi struggled briefly but as Kuroba brought them closer to the stage he relaxed. It wasn’t as if he wasn’t comfortable.

“I want to show you something,” he said, eyes lighting up just as his voice had. Shinichi took his time moving up the stairs until both musicians were sitting next to each other on the piano bench. Kuroba set his fingers on the keys.

“Jazz isn’t always what you may think it is, darling,” he started, eyes fixated on his fingers. “It’s more than that, it’s something that has been passed down through the hands of legends and from those legends to their legacies and so on... It’d be easy to say songs have been expressed the same throughout the ages, but with every new playthrough comes a new interpretation and a new feeling. Every new musician comes a new meaning.” His eyes trailed up from where they were on his hands to Shinichi. His eyes resting in azure and Shinichi’s in a pool of indigo. “Help me find that meaning.”

The saxophonist’s hands fell on the keys. Kuroba moved swiftly but gracefully and Shinichi could see his hands were well calloused. Running through a melodic descending pattern that sounded like something revolving around A major, the musician’s hands danced. His stomach did something when Kuroba looked back up to smile at him.

“ _Whenever it’s early twilight... I watch ‘til a star breaks through_.” His voice was light and airy, much less projected than how it had been on stage—different. The song was simple. The range was perfect and the lyrics much less drifted the realms of elaborate. But it was what Kuroba did with it that made it so complex, so mesmerizingly sound yet simple.

“ _Funny, it’s not a star I see,”_  he smiled, “ _it’s always you_.”

The violinist’s eyes felt heavy, and his body relaxed with the sounds of keys clacking and notes filling the silence—Kuroba’s voice light in his ears. The meaning was easy enough to find, but Shinichi let sleep find him first, leaning against Kuroba’s side had its benefits after all, and his presence set the violinist’s mind at ease. Like a warm blanket during a cold day. Like a lullaby. 

“ _If a breeze caresses me, it’s really you strolling by_...” Like the way he walks towards him eyes always glowing, and his smile warm. “ _If I hear a melody, it’s merely the way you sigh_...”

Only time would tell how long Kuroba had looked at him through fond eyelashes that night, and Shinichi thought he remembered a soft spoken whisper, wrapping around his ears and his skin, like a warm breeze caressing his cheek.

“ _Funny, each time I fall in love_... _it’s always you_.”

 

* * *

 

A soft, mellow tone picked at his ears as he rolled over, feeling softness move itself further into his face. He sighed contently, breathing into the fabric as the familiar bliss of a well rested sleep washed over him. Egyptian cotton sheets tickled his skin as he moved, and he didn’t hesitate to embed himself into one of the many pre-fluffed pillows currently surrounding him. Until he felt himself blink—or rather open his eyes because the pillow currently stuffed into his nose was not his. Nor was the bed.

He heaved his body upwards and was greeted by more sound. And a lot more to look at.

The room—apartment, house, whatever it was—had a lot to offer in terms of modern decor, but what caught Shinichi’s eye was the mix of plaques and posters surrounding white painted walls and other colourful furnishings.

Everything from black and white newspapers depicting musical events, to frames of the greats themselves. The jazz legends. Shinichi smiled despite his situation and ran a hand across his forehead. It was to be questioned how he ended up in Kuroba’s bed only weeks after knowing him. Wearing music note printed pajamas. (He’d need to have a word with Kuroba about that).

The mellow tone started again and he felt his ears strain to make out the song. It wasn’t something he was familiar with, but he now knew Kuroba was at least home. Nothing could imitate that tone.

He uncovered the sheets and stepped lightly off the bed—king sized and without much to be missed—while also reading all that covered the wall, or trying to at least. 

The bed stood in a large open style bedroom, and he could see the kitchen directly in front of him if not for the tiny bit of wall branching out in a make shift barrier between. Both walls, including the latter, were filled with newspapers, pictures, and records which held great significance over the early and more modern jazz eras.

He wandered closer towards the kitchen, and marveled at the sky in front of him. The whole wall was windows, every bit of it, and he struggled to find his ground looking at busy Tokyo streets below him at a birds eye view. The view was amazing, the space was amazing, hell there was even a grand piano and a drum kit right in the _living room_ —Shinichi was having a hard time not liking the place. He moved closer to granite countertops, running his fingers across cold stone and jumping when a voice made itself known from behind him.

He hadn’t realized the saxophone had stopped, and his eyes found their way to Kuroba, leaning on the makeshift wall like he owned the place—which Shinichi was fairly certain he did. “Did I wake you?” he asked, an untraceable amount of concern seeping into his amused smirk. Shinichi felt his cheeks flush.

“No, I—uh, I slept fine. It’s just...” his head turned back towards the bed and then back towards Kuroba who was now standing beside him, giving the bed the same considering eyes he had (albeit much more amused).

“You weren’t expecting this?” he asked, indigo eyes darting across the house in question.

“Well, yes, I wasn’t expecting to wake up in your house for one... but with fluffed pillows and a view so high up I can barely see the ground? Kuroba this is—”

“A lot?” Kuroba’s eyes briefly fell to the floor than back to him, this time with a soft smile. It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but he couldn’t hold his tongue. He didn’t know what else to say. “Money has never really been a problem anyway.” And Shinichi guessed he never asked. He was living in one of his parents houses, who’s to say Kuroba couldn’t do the same? No need to dwell on the subject.

His heart fluttered when the musician drifted closer towards him, wrapping a hand around his waist. Shinichi bit his tongue. “What am I wearing?” he asked, giving himself a once over that Kuroba’s eyes humorously followed.

“Pajamas, I’d assume. Are they not to your liking?” The saxophonists grin was lazy but held a certain amount of controlled chaos. Shinichi glared.

“You very well know the question I’m trying to ask.” His face was heating up and the musician’s eyes simply sparkled. He leaned in closer to Shinichi’s ear, and the violinist failed to maneuver outside of his grip.

“I’m afraid I am but a humble musician, my dear violinist,” he laughed. “Not a mind reader.”

Shinichi ripped himself from the alto’s grip, and beelined for the kitchen in search of coffee. If Kuroba was going to steal his clothes, he’d be stealing the musician’s coffee.

“Where were you playing music earlier, it sounded... muffled?” Shinichi mused, ripping open cupboards, while not exactly sure if he’d been too tired to have heard properly. He beamed when he found a fresh coffee mug. Kuroba laughed.

“I assume this is your way of looking for coffee?” Kuroba asked instead, but Shinichi’s glare had him grinning all too much to care. He laughed. “If you must know, I was in my studio. It’s just right over there.” Kuroba pointed behind him and Shinichi quirked an eyebrow. 

“Kuroba that’s a portrait.”

“Yah, but behind that.” He moved his hand as if excentuating his point, and Shinichi made sure to deliver a clear but unmistakable deadpan. “A uh, door, disguised as a portrait. I was getting a little creative with the interior designer.” Shinichi glared and Kuroba deflated. “...who I may or may not have had too much fun messing with.”

Shinichi hummed and reached onto his tip toes to grab the beans he’d spotted, turning around briefly once he heard Kuroba choking on something. “What was that song you were playing earlier? I didn’t recognize it,” he asked, and Kuroba beamed. The musician settled himself in a stool behind the island.

“1951—Frank Sinatra, Jack Wolfe, and Joel Herron— _I’m a Fool to Want You_. Never once have I seen a chart’s lyrics come out so filled with longing except here, Sinatra really knew what he was feeling.”

“You mean he actually wrote?”

“Well, co-wrote for this particular chart. He was invited to do so by Herron just after his first destructive divorce... he still loved her. And it shows.” Kuroba moved from his chair over to the coffee maker where Shinichi was (not) struggling with the functions. “Here let me get that for you.”

It wasn’t long before Shinichi was brandishing a steaming cup of coffee and Kuroba was sauntering back towards the couch. Which was also bright blue. (At least it matched the red pillows, and white walls, and yellow modern art—it was official. The man was colourblind). Shinichi played the tune over in his head again. It sounded like it too, but longing...

“How am I here anyways?” he asked, cursing himself for not asking sooner. It wasn’t supposed to be everyday he woke up in a (kind of) strangers house, and their bed, and with changed clothes. Did he really trust Kuroba that much? The musician in question smiled.

“Well, I believe it was a little past one in the morning when I was playing the piano for you, and even sooner when you fell asleep. Me being nothing but a gentleman of course, escorted you to my abode where you could sleep soundly.” Shinichi snorted at Kuroba’s dramatics but eventually joined him on the royal blue couch with a cup of coffee in hand. Kuroba winced. “...I did not, however, take into account that you would drink black coffee after you awoke.” He threw a hand to his chest. “I’m sorry darling but the deal is off. I must go mourn the time I’ve spent courting you.”

Shinichi took that moment to elbow him in the ribs. Kuroba blanched.

“First off, I’d never in my _life_ agree to make a deal with someone as cheeky as you. Second, black coffee is a delicacy and you should start appreciating it if we’re going to start hanging around each other. Third—” he cut himself off when he looked up to see Kuroba beaming at him with a smile so pure it caught him off guard. Shinichi felt the question leave his mouth in a breath of air. “What?”

Kuroba’s smile faded and he ran a hand through knotted hair. “Nothing, darling. Please, continue.”

Talking to Kuroba was like talking to never ending smiles and laughter. It made Shinichi question sometimes how he was even real. But in turn it never really took much to see that yes, he was in fact real, and Shinichi was just too dull to make anything Kuroba did seem ordinary. Like the way he walked, or how he looked at him, eyes a constant glow of indigo, and his voice smooth and collected, laughter a timbre of raspy, but cool echoing noise.

And when Kuroba insisted he drive him home, very well knowing traffic in the afternoon would be insane and not knowing a clue about where Shinichi’s house was. Even as he dropped him off, walking him to his porch like the gentleman he so claimed to be, and wishing him goodbye with one of those stupid hand kisses, Shinichi had to blink a little on the other side of his door.

Grabbing his violin case and making his way down the subway for evening rehearsal had never taken him longer. Because he’d never quite realized how truly extraordinary Kuroba Kaito really was.

 

* * *

 

Thinking back on it, music really _was_ a burden to him. Making itself clear during moments like these. Moments where he wasn’t motivated, where he was forcing himself to play. Where he was out of tune, and even his perfect pitch couldn’t tell him right from wrong.

Nothing worked, nothing made a difference. He felt helpless. Useless. And it all happened on occasion and there was nothing he could ever do about it but curse and scream in the solitude of his own home (plus, the neighbors never complained anyways)... Until he showed up.

Shinichi had just finished toppling his stand for the fourth time when the doorbell rung.

Of course, he hadn’t been sure of himself when he’d first heard it, but second time’s the charm. He felt a huff of breath leave him all too easily as he marched down towards the door, opening it with all the intent to shut it again until he wasn’t.

Because Kuroba was there. On his doorstep. With a carefully crafted smile.

“I wasn’t sure if you’d—”

“Kuroba, I really don’t have time.”

“...I brought scones?” Sure enough, the musician thrusted a box of citrusy smelling pastries in front of his face and Shinichi had to catch himself for a second.

That was evidently how the musician had infiltrated his house. And how Shinichi stood making coffee for a guest now sitting in his library with lemon scones.

He paused a moment when he realized his hands were still shaking, making the tray clatter with him as he held it. The violinist took a moment to steel himself, brushing the bangs away from his face, much too tired for a smile.

He walked into the library and took a second to do a double take. Kuroba had taken a seat on the chair opposite his usual, but around him was music, and scribbled notes, and tuners—all of his telltale signs of distress. He looked almost sad, if that was possible for someone like Kuroba, but Shinichi guessed he was more likely uncomfortable. He rushed to put the tray down and take his seat, still wondering if he should try and clean—

“Don’t bother, my studio isn’t any better anyways.” His smile was comfortable. Shinichi wondered if he could make the same one as easily in the situation he was now.

It was silent as they sat in the library, each picking at their own scone’s. Shinichi’s table still a mess of music and tuners as if ushering him back into his work. He suddenly felt small.

“Do you want to talk about it?” the saxophonist promptly asked, voice immediately carrying way through the library (although the silence had been suffocating), and just as small with eyes fixated on the wooden floorboards beneath him.

“Not really, no.”

He looked up, eyes wide with curiosity, all too sudden for the violinist. “I’ve never seen a home library this size, are you a book enthusiast by chance darling?”  _This_ was why Kuroba was extraordinary.

“My dad was—or is. He’s a writer.” Shinichi picked at the side of his scone.

“Any favourites?” Kuroba was up, wandering amoung the shelves but Shinichi kept his eyes on the scone in front of him.

“Doyle. Rampo...” He could hear the saxophonist’s hands moving across each spine. Footsteps light and perfectly weighted.

“So mysteries is it?” he perked. “I never pegged you to be the type, but I suppose a guy like me wouldn’t look like a Maurice LeBlanc fan myself...” Shinichi rolled his eyes.

“You are the spitting image of mischief, of course you’d pick Lupin.”

“And you wouldn’t?”

He put his scone down just as a hand hovered over his shoulder, and tensed. Forcing his breath to leave him in one big, even chunk.

“What are you doing here, Kuroba?” he asked, a certain sense of fatigue creeping amoungst each syllable. His eyes met narrowed, blank ones.

“I’m not leaving you.”

There was a lot that that could mean, a lot of reasons that Shinichi left unpondered. All in time as Kuroba fitted himself beside Shinichi, in a chair big enough for both but small enough to feel. It wasn’t much, but the musician moved himself just a fraction of an inch closer, hesitantly working his arm around the other’s shoulders.

It took the violinist two seconds to cave and grab onto the other man as if he were a lifeline.

He wouldn’t cry, no, but god did Kuroba make him feel like he could. His hands were trembling with their hold on the other’s button down, but Kuroba made no move to push him off so he let himself grip—nonexistent nails tightening around the warm body now surrounding him. Kuroba had the violinist’s head tucked in his chest, his own resting just above Shinichi’s shoulder. Positioned so Shinichi could feel his breath on the back of his neck.

“No matter what happens, I’ll always be here,” he started, and Shinichi felt every word touch the back of his neck, his ears. “Remember that, I’ll always be here for you if you need me.”

He was so kind, Shinichi knew that, but his motives were such an enigma.

With lack of better method—his throat was dry from the earlier practice—he nodded his head against Kuroba’s chest and felt the other let out a shaky sigh.

“Just please, stop doing this to yourself.”

Shinichi didn’t have an answer for that and not before long they were back to talking on Shinichi’s couch, scones in hand, with stupid—if not small—smiles on each other’s faces.

He really wished he did though.

 

* * *

 

After rehearsal, Shinichi made way towards his case and gently set his bow down. Feeling eyes on the back of his head he turned around to see a familiar head of blond hair regarding him with a thoughtful pair of eyes. His brows furrowed.

“Hakuba, what are you doing?” Seemingly not realizing the harsh tone the blond continued to stare until his hand fell from his chin.

“You’ve changed,” he started. “Have you finally figured it out?”

Shinichi scoffed. “Figured what out?”

“How to let people in,” he finished with certainty. Shinichi opened his mouth and then closed it just as the blond took a step back towards his own case. “You look healthier, you’ve smiled for the first time in god knows when, and I can’t say I’ve heard you play like that since before this all started.”

“Is there something wrong with my playing?” Shinichi continued with annoyance, feeling slightly offended that the blond would think otherwise.

“Quite the opposite actually, Kudou-kun.” Shinichi’s eyes widened slightly. “I’ve never heard you sound so at peace before.”

He watched the other exit through the large metal doors and felt his brows furrow once more. Because that was something to think about.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up is the end!
> 
> Comments and the like are always much appreciated, any feedback is wonderful!


	4. East Of The Sun (West Of The Moon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs featured/mentioned:
> 
> \- (Lowkey Giant Steps reference)  
> \- East Of The Sun by Diana Krall (Live)  
> \- Sibelius Concerto first mov. in D minor  
> \- Paganini’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major

“You want me to play that?” he asked, wondering if Kuroba just wanted to see him fail. (Who was he, Tommy Flanagan?). “You do understand piano is not my main instrument, right?” 

“Then play your main instrument,” the head of wild brown hair suggested.

“Why can’t we just pick another song?” he said exasperated, and the musician leaned in closer.

“Why can’t you play your violin?”

Shinichi sat at the piano with a certain weight settling over his shoulders. Either from Kuroba having draped half of his body over them, or from the words settling at the back of his mind.

“I don’t want to do that,” he articulated slowly. Shinichi knew his voice was small. He was sure his voice wasn’t powerful in the slightest, but he felt Kuroba tense over him. It was silent for a moment until the musician removed himself.

“Alright then, how about this?” He thrusted a piece of paper from who knows where onto the bench and Shinichi struggled to catch the slowly falling page. He snorted. “Something funny, darling?” the saxophonist questioned, a bemused expression crossing his face.

“Nothing at all. But I’d suggest you get this ready fast or I’m not going to have enough time to finish it.” 

“Evening rehearsal?”

“Evening rehearsal,” he confirmed. 

It took close to two minutes for Kuroba to have the band up and ready to play and Shinichi wasn’t surprised to hear Kuroba’s voice this time either. The violinist smiled.

“ _East of the sun_ ,” he sang, “ _and west of the moon—We’ll build a dream house, out of love, dear._ ” Kuroba flashed him a smile and Shinichi laughed. “ _Close to the sun in the day and nearer to the moon at night, we’ll live in a lovely way, dear—sharing our love in the pale moonlight!_ ”

Stretching his fingers across a piano had never been more entertaining, or left such a giddy feeling in his stomach.

“ _Up amoung the stars we’ll find, a harmony alive to a lovely tune—east of the sun, and west of the moon, dear. East of the sun and then west of the moon._ ”

Even as the song came to its last section, Shinichi counted a total of eight missed chords and five wrong notes. He could justify blaming his own out of practice skill, but being a trained reader and having no excuse for a simple movement of fingers to be out of practice had him duped. He’d tried and failed to withstand Kuroba’s smile—on every dear, and east, and sun, and love—honestly the man could smile a lot, okay? And Shinichi found it troubling even thinking of missing it.

Instead, Shinichi focused on his fingers. Even as the drummer qued for the band to stop, and his hands remained on the last chord with triumph, he let his head fall forward and watched, trained his eyes on the spots where beads of sweat fell graciously between the white and black keys. He was smiling sure, but his breath was catching on every other exhale. It started like a pit in his stomach and he felt the music slowly drown out his hearing, his feet suddenly a lot heavier on the pedals. His fingers twitching on the keys.

Shit, he was about to pass out wasn’t he?

A click of his tongue made him realize it was better than collapsing during rehearsal, but collapsing in general wasn’t really his favourite thing to do. The thud on the piano keys wasn’t all too pleasant either.

The last thing he heard was the faint echo of notes in his head and a strangled, unmelodic cry of, “ _Shinichi_!”

 

* * *

 

He woke up to Egyptian cotton sheets and fluffed pillows for the second time. Except his head felt like a hammer to fine china and he wasn’t so eager as to attempt to lift it. But that was okay because Kuroba was beside him in an instant, adding a consoling hand to his shoulder and looking at him with soft dusted bangs over his eyes, all concern and model like.

“Don’t try and move,” he said, and Shinichi rolled his eyes. He gave the violinist a glass of water and Shinichi adjusted himself to drink.

“Yah, no shit Sherlock. My head feels...” he ran a hand over his forehead once the rush of downing the water glass hit him. More importantly he felt like he was forgetting something. “So, you felt the need to kidnap me into your home again?”

“Well, I figured piano benches weren’t the comfiest alternative for beds so...”

But Shinichi wasn’t listening anymore, sure his head felt like shit and his body more so than ever but his vision adjusted enough to see bright sunlight, and blue sky emmenating from the large windows in front of him. It was gorgeous. He nearly dropped the glass out of his hand.

“Kuroba, what time is it?” he asked, cautiously, struggling in the tangled sheets. There was a panic well hidden in the saxophonist’s expression. He asked again, firmer this time. “ _Kuroba_ , what time is it?”

His face only tightened further, and Shinichi’s frown made itself clear. He heaved himself out of the bed, feeling the head rush like a train as he pushed past Kuroba, striding towards the kitchen.

“Wait, Shinichi you shouldn’t get up, your going to—!”

All the despair and aches crept back in his stomach as he planted his feet in front of the clock on the musician’s living room wall. There was a moment of ticking silence, and Shinichi felt his breath leave him in uneven chunks.

“You had every chance to wake me up and you knew I had rehearsal, you knew how much it meant to me, you knew—!” He turned around to face the musician, a sudden fury in his eyes and he clenched his fists.

Kuroba was right in front of him. He looked around him, but it wasn’t anywhere. His brows furrowed.

“Where is my violin.” Kuroba’s eyes deflated. Shinichi himself felt empty.

“Kudou, please, don’t go. This isn’t healthy—”

“And what should you care, if you’d known what was good for me than you would have _woken me up_.”

“ _I know!_ I know I had every chance,” he grabbed Shinichi’s wrist, “but I also know that your job makes you miserable!”

The sudden outburst caused the violinist’s eyes to widen, pausing justly in the silence. He opened his mouth to retort, but Kuroba’s brief dangerous smile held him back. “...No—no, you can’t tell me that you don’t work under a man who won’t even take a second to see how skillful you are. You can’t lie to me and say that you practice your songs willingly, because I saw you Kudou, I saw you, darling...”

“And you never should have.” His words were cold. He wasn’t sure he could look at Kuroba’s eyes as they were now. They looked glassy.

“I know it’s selfish of me to not want to see you like that, but you’re the one who won’t prove it to him. You’re good at what you do, and you let him run all over you like that!”

He felt his teeth grate. “And _what the hell_  would you know about me?”

“I know a lot about you.” Shinichi rolled his eyes feeling his stomach roll with them. “I know that you’re good at what you do and won’t stand up for yourself. I know that you practice to the point of bruises if the tape on your fingers every other week is anything to show for.” The violinist touched unconsciously at his fingers. “I know you’re scared of playing for yourself, scared of going back to your old ways, the methods he said were worthless—” 

“How would you know that! How could you have possibly known a single thing about the orchestra when I haven’t told you any—!”

“Hakuba told me!”

Shinichi’s hands stilled, and his own confused expression found itself reflected on Kuroba’s face. The musician’s eyes widened briefly and Shinichi found his own doing the same. He turned his eyes to the floor panels below them.

“You knew who I was... you knew _Hakuba_ and you didn’t tell me?” Kuroba swallowed, loud enough for the violinist to hear without looking.

“It just never—listen, Shinichi,” Kuroba moved to tilt his chin, eyes now zeroed in on the violinist’s own raging ones. “You’re going to break like this, it’s breaking me to see you like this, and I can’t—”

He pushed Kuroba’s hand off of him and took a step back.

“So you think I’m just some wasteless prodigy to be pitied, then? I’m sure Hakuba’s told you as much.” He turned furious eyes back up. “Never moving forward because they can’t show up enough to succeed?”

Kuroba took a step forward.

“Oh, I know you can show up. And god knows you’re not a wasteless prodigy, but this isn’t about that,” he said, clear exasperation contrasting with unclouded eyes. His hair shredded itself into bangs across his forehead, which tossed gently as he moved his face to meet the violinist’s. “It’s about you being a coward.”

Silence fell like blanket over fire—extinguishing the flames to leave nothing but smoldering ashes in its wake. Leaving them with nothing but the vision of what once was dancing in each other’s eyes. A battling fury as they looked at one another.

And all too soon that vision shattered.

“Where’s my violin,” Shinichi asked, finally. Words a certain venom that had him losing Kuroba’s gaze.

The musician’s eyes twitched to the side, towards the portrait they’d talked about the last time he was over. Ah yes, the studio.

Shinichi brushed past him and towards the shelf, leaving Kuroba’s gaze trailing aimlessly after him. “Wait, no Shinichi, that’s my—” the portrait clicked open even before the musician could stop him.

The violinist stopped. Because there, albeit decorated in a swarm of records and newspapers,were multiple, if not dozens of small trophies layered about across bookshelves as if paper weights to a careless man. Kuroba was a carefree kind of guy. But some of the trophies were impossible not to recognize. There were no others like them, and the musician had to know that. Everyone in the music world knew that.

Underneath one of the small golden grammy phones read Best Improvised Jazz Solo. It was a Grammy, recent too, and with a musician whose name everybody knew on it.

Speechless both the saxophonist and the violinist starred at the trophy.

Because Kuroba was Kid.

Kid, the elustrus independent musician who nobody knew from face, but everybody knew from sound. Winning countless awards in the field of jazz, classical, releasing albums selling in the millions, and stealing from his audience their applause after each and every show. It would be hard to deny the similarities now that Shinichi had found proof of the fact. Or maybe he was just being naive.

The award winning musician opened his mouth, but Shinichi beat him to it. He had grabbed his violin and headed out the door, slamming it behind him and leaving a defeated musician to claw at the back of his head as he sunk back down against it.

 

* * *

 

72 missed messages, 29 missed phone calls, and an increasingly long headache had him sitting at the bar he’d been meaning to go to for months. Not that he’d go for reasons other than his current ones now, but he couldn’t be bothered to phrase it any other way in his head.

Cool drips of condensation dropped down his drink glass, some form of whiskey or another, and he ignored his drink in favour of tracing water patterns on the bar’s surface. Even the bartender knew it was best not to approach, and for that, he was grateful.

A fellow patron on the other hand, knew no boundaries and sat gracefully in the seat beside him. Her hair was done up, braided in a sort of way that made her high cheekbones stand out and her glossed lips fix themselves as the centre of attention.

He’d missed that smile, and so he smiled back. Immediately she took his smile as a sign to hug freely, and the air promptly left him with the force of her embrace. He relaxed into the grip and let his hand travel upwards to pat lightly at her hair—dark brown strands against his fingers.

Ran was back. She was home. Here. (Why here?).

He frowned. “What are you doing here?” he asked, missing the way she laughed and pondered his lack of greeting. It took a second but her face stilled and she smiled.

“Hakuba told me I might find you here,” she glanced at his glass, “it seems he was correct.”

“Ran, whatever he’s been telling you it’s not—”

“What happened between you and him, Shinichi?” her voice was a whisper. His brows only twitched in confusion.

“Well, I’m not sure about him, but I’m pretty sure me and Hakuba are fine aside from—”

“That’s not who I was talking about.” He frowned briefly before understanding hit him, and he turned back towards his glass. She gave him a second, Ran was always so patient and caring, and he could freely say he loved her for it.

“I messed up Ran, I’m not even sure it’s worth saving at this point.”

She shifted, taking her jacket off and smiling down at him. “Are you talking about your relationship with him or are you talking about your career? Because it’s either one or the other.” Her smile turned gentle. “...Or both.”

With lack of better words he simply nodded his head, turning to look into his glass for what was probably the twentieth time that night. “I’m not good enough. For any of this Ran... I should’ve—I should’ve stopped a long time ago. I was naive to think I would get better, that _any_ of this would get better.”

Ran was quick to grab him into a hug again and despite his desperate attempts to flee, his body wouldn’t work with him. He trembled slightly.

“It’s not about getting better, Shinichi,” she said, tightening her hold. “You’re already the best— _I_ know that, _Hakuba_ knows that, and the only person who can’t seem to recognize that is the man you’re working under and yourself. This job has got nothing to do with how skillful you are, Shinichi. It’s toxic.”

She let go and he jumped at the opportunity to breathe.

“Then what would you have me do?! Completely dismiss my dreams and run off into the sunset with a musician who probably thinks I’m some deadbeat wannabe?” She smiled and looked behind his shoulder.

“I think you should let him decide that for himself. I’ll see you back at home, Shinichi.” She patted him on the shoulder and stood up, collecting her bag from the chair and heading for the door just past him.

Emerging from where she’d gone was probably the first and last person he’d wanted to see at the moment. He sat down and Shinichi held back the urge to swallow.

“Hey,” he began, watching Shinichi with a peculiar expression that had the violinist turn to fix his eyes on his glass. He opened his mouth and then closed it again, instead deciding on a playful smirk that had Shinichi tensing in his chair. “So I heard you were willing to run off into the sunset with me, is that true?”

“Why are you here, Kuroba?”

Said musician shifted, calling for the bartender and asking for his own glass—if only to even the playing grounds. “I need to explain, please just let me explain and then you can decide.” Shinichi’s head lolled briefly to the side and only moved straight with Kuroba’s delicate ask of, “Darling?”

He sighed and nodded his head.

“I knew who you were.” Shinichi’s teeth clenched. “I knew who you were even before we introduced ourselves because nobody, absolutely no musician from our generation could play classical without having heard your name.”

Shinichi snorted. “Try asking that now.”

“Even now.” He turned to watch the bartender filling his glass and moving a coaster in front of him. “But I knew you, and because of you I started really focusing on jazz.”

“Kuroba that doesn’t make any sense.”

The saxophonist laughed nervously and grabbed onto his drink, taking a sip and scrunching his nose in reaction. “Think of it this way. What was I to do if I could never rival you in your own playing field?”

Shinichi’s eyes widened. “Really? You learned a whole other style just because you didn’t think you’d be the best? Isn’t that more being a poor sport than anything?” Kuroba laughed again.

“Okay, now you’re just hurting my feelings,” Kuroba pouted. However, the musician shifted awkwardly when the violinist’s face told no story. He coughed. “But you misunderstand—although, that wasn’t the only reason, because it seems my choice had already been set in stone when I found out about Kid.”

“Your father then, the man in the portrait?”

“Ding, ding! Great deduction darling, if you weren’t a violinist I’d surely mistake you for a detective—” The violinist punched him in the arm and Kuroba near well fell off his chair from the force.

“Shut up, _Kid_.”

The saxophonist craddled his arm, and despite the potential pain, grinned like a madman. Shinichi’s lips tugged up at the corners. Kuroba’s smile seemed to brighten significantly (as if he hadn’t already seen that happen many times... it still did _things_ ). 

“Anyways, as I was saying, with a hot ass like yours,” Shinichi choked on his drink, “it seemed to be the only way I could ever make it to the same level as you. To excel enough in another category to make it on that same stage with you. I wouldn’t be able to take you down even if I tried.”

“Not with that determinination, you wouldn’t,” Shinichi mumbled into his glass. Face heating briefly against his will. Kuroba smiled.

“Because I didn’t want to, and Kid presented me with options I never knew I had.” He swished his glass around, swirling amber liquid. “Saxophone had always been easier, and jazz I found just as freeing. But when I made it up on that stage...” He put his glass down.

“I wasn’t there with you.”

“I asked around, and people said you moved to America, so I moved higher.”

“The Grammies.”

“Hell, I even played a few classical catagories just to see if your name would show up...”

Shinichi turned towards him, his face a mess and the dark circles hiding nothing as he looked into Kuroba’s similar expression. “Why are you telling me this, Kuroba.”

“To think this whole time you were stuck playing in some stuck up orchestra that couldn’t even spare the time to recognize your name...” Kuroba’s eyes darkened. “And when I saw you in that jazz club, looking like you’d just had a run in with a particularly bad storm and still standing so tall, and listening, and god your eyes, Shinichi... You were still so beautiful, and I’d finally found you.” His eyes swirled a dark deep blue, desperation showing clear and Shinichi was having a hard time keeping up. “...So, I resorted to my last source.”

“Hakuba.”

“Believe me, I’d give a lot to not have known that guy during high school, but he was in the business and so were you. I found out you’d received dozens of asks from universities, music schools, private orchestras, but none of them were stationed in Tokyo. He told me you wanted to be apart of the symphony orchestra.”

“As I do.”

“Why?”

“It’s my dream.”

“And your dream involves torturing yourself in some abusive conductor’s orchestra just because it has the highest success rate for auditions?” Shinichi’s hand tightened around his glass, teeth clenching with him.

“So what if it does, Kuroba. All dreams take hard times to achieve.”

“Not like that—Not like that, darling.” Kuroba ran a hand through his hair. Shinichi wasn’t surprised when it got caught halfway. “You’ve become so fixated on Tokyo Metro. that you’ve dismissed all your other options,” he said firmly, but Shinichi was so tired.

“And what options were those?”

“London! Vienna!” His hands went up. “Travelling the world with the career of a lifetime, as a musician who actually gets recognized!” Pleading eyes turned on the violinist who could have sworn his head was spinning. “Travelling the world and meeting new people, new musicians...”

“Meeting you?” Kuroba’s mouth closed on a swallow. Shinichi almost felt himself do the same.

“Music isn’t supposed to be a burden for you to hold Shinichi,” he started again, carefully articulate with every word. “It’s supposed to be something you can share with others, experience for yourself, find love in—and I know you did... You just have to find that again. Like how I found you.” He could feel Kuroba’s breath inching itself closer, steady and tickling against his chin—the absolute opposite of his chest in its fast beating rhythm.

“Remind me how I was found again?” he said, sarcastic in attempt, but more so breathless as the words left his lips.

“Well, one could say it was chance, a lot of hard work and dedication.” The musician swirled his glass again, a grin hiding in the corners of his lips. “A mix of the two...”

Shinichi huffed. “So Aoko kidnapping me into the bar was your hard work and dedication?”

“Well, no, but getting you to come back was.” His glass was down but his eyes were much brighter than before.

“Do you still want me to come back?” Shinichi asked, every bit of hesitance disappearing under the musician’s wide smile.

“I’ve wanted to be next to you ever since I saw you play for the first time.”

The violinist quirked a brow. “And I’m assuming that’s your way of saying yes.” The musician’s smile turned its attention back to his glass.

“Or I love you,” he mused. “But once again it could be a mix of the two—!”

There was less a chance to ponder what he’d just said than to taste, because their lips were together and Shinichi couldn’t help but realize he’d wanted to do that for a long time. They broke apart quickly enough (they were still in public after all) but Kuroba’s grin made him really consider doing it again—if only to wipe it off his face, of course.

But he’d have plenty of chance in the future. After the apology.

 

* * *

 

“Kudou Shinichi does it again!” Having stopped the band only seconds after the door closed, the conductor’s voice echoed in the eerie quiet of the hall.

It wasn’t praise as it so sounded. No—it was mockery. (He’d rushed. He’d ran all the way there. He was sweating, heaving, and now slowly sinking backwards from where he was standing by the door... except for it wasn’t like that anymore). He straightened. The man was smirking, baton in hand and pointed, aged eyes looking directly towards him.

“You know, it’s a wonder I even know your name. What’s your excuse this time? Or did you simply forget?” A cold bite influenced each syllable. Was he that unforgiving? Could Shinichi even find an excuse that was reasonable? He decided, no, he couldn’t, and bit the insides of his cheek. He collected his breath and smiled.

“I wish I could say I _simply_ forgot—honestly I do. I wish I could say I didn’t set my alarm every single night, or mark my calendar, or practice every single day without breaks because that would make this a hell of a lot easier than having to explain how I’d gotten into the habit of playing music with the world famous Kid. But it seems life has a way of fucking that up, now doesn’t it, _sir_.” The conductor seemed taken aback, but he looked angry, angryer than Shinichi. Huh, must have been the disrespect.

“What are you—”

“You’re a violinist yourself. Is that correct, sir?” Shinichi had moved to set his case on one of the nearest tables, opening it and lifting up his violin as if to demonstrate. The conductor was laughing now as if Shinichi wasn’t being serious. He nodded his head. “Hold on one second then.”

Taking his violin and bow, he tuned for a second (just to see the man’s fuse shorten) and then proceeded to play a few double harmonics. Watching eyes widen and the conductor’s grip tighten on his baton. Good.

“Kudou-san, you better—”

“If you were a decent violinist, then you would know that double harmonics aren’t very easy to do. Of course, they’re not too difficult for me because I’ve practiced the somewhat useless technique for hours on end, but that’s not why I came here.” The conductor’s grin looked poisonous, his eyes were another story.

“Then please, Kudou-san. Enlighten us.”

“Do you remember the Sibelius concerto, the first movement in D minor? The one you allowed me to solo on for half a bar before you gave the solo to the chair beside me?” The conductor rolled his eyes. Shinichi put his violin to his chin. “Well the part you assigned me went a little something like this—”

He brought his bow up and began descending with the constant pattern: two notes following each other in succession. The most boring part he’d ever played, the conductor’s lips curled a little and Shinichi kind of wanted to punch him.

“Anyways, we can all agree that that can barely compare to...” he brought his violin up, “this—”

His fingers moved much faster this time, in a perfect illustration of the sheet music, and he felt sound vibrate throughout the hall. Shaping his tone through the ears of everyone listening, eyes closed but smiling because he had too much to offer to stop now.

Although, when the conductor’s throat cleared, Shinichi could feel the edges of his impatience catch up to him. Having proved his point, he lowered his violin. Green eyes looked hesitant, some part confusion the rest boundless anger. “Get out of the hall this instant!” The conductor half yelled, half muttered. “It’s no use dwelling on past mistakes, Kudou-san. You should know that.”

“Was the mistake you not choosing me for the part? No offense Mitsuki-san, but someone told me that I should be confident in my own skill. And it’s a little late, I know, but that’s what I’m doing now.”

“That is it. Collect your things and go, I want you out of here—better yet, I want you out of my orchestra until you’ve learned better of yourself.” His grin looked _so satisfied._

Shinichi’s own lips quirked.

“I’m afraid that’s not a possibility anymore, sir.” The conductor’s eyebrow rose, his grin not matching his eyes. “After all, why would I come back after I’ve already learned how terrible you are at doing your job?” The grin morphed back into a scowl, and his baton was so close to snapping in half, Shinichi was already starting to contemplate the need for anger management.

“How about a song for the road then, let’s call it my final peace offering—”

He closed his eyes.

Paganini’s Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major. He’d never been handed the piece physically but he’d seen it played by some of the greats. The greats he wanted to be like some day, and what influenced him into caring—into trying his hardest to be the best.

It was an understandable ideology that that could never be true, there was always someone better. But if that was supposed to be a deterrent than it was doing a pretty bad job at being one. He’d always loved a challenge, and what better challenge than reaching for the top?

Fast octave changes. Running strings across his fingers, changing each note according to the tempo. Dynamics. Before he knew it sweat was dripping down his temple. The song was far from over but he forced himself to stop.

The conductor looked furious.

He lowered his bow to a dead silence, noting an obvious lack of applause but that was fine. He’d made his peace even if the whole orchestra was clapping and green eyes bore silent, and viciously into his forehead.

He grinned. Bowed. And headed for the door.

“I’ll ruin your name for this,” he said, and the conductor was still making the effort to grin. Shinichi could almost pity him. “You’ll never make it in any other orchestra in Tokyo.”

The violinist’s hand stilled on the door, just waiting to be dropped closed, but he couldn’t help the smirk that etched itself onto the corners of his face. He’d come too far to stop now. 

“Then I’ll make a new name for myself.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Once he was outside, Shinichi took a second and eyed the sky. It was weird for it to be so clear skyed. He briefly wondered if this was his first time ever really looking.

A figure crept up from where he’d been waiting, leaning on the building just beside him. Without hesitation he smiled, looking back towards the ground and following suit down the steps. 

“How’d it go?” he asked, and Shinichi handed him his violin case without a second notion. The man simply grinned.

“Don’t think I didn’t catch you in the hallway watching the whole thing.”

“I feel like it was more the underlaying meaning in the question, than the actual physical presence—”

“It went great. Thank you.” He looked proud of himself, and Shinichi could easily call him an idiot for it. Although, he knew all too well what he’d done for him. “And I’m sorry Kuroba, you were right. About everything.” 

“Of course I was, darling,” he said, smug as he could ever be and Shinichi held back the laughter bubbling in his throat. God knows his ego didn’t need it. “Although,” he started, drawing out the syllables. “If we’re going to go to London together I’d at least expect a first name basis.” The violinist snorted.

“As if ‘darling’ wasn’t already breaching all laws of social etiquette.”

“Oh come on! You absolutely adore it. _Darling_.” His eyes found their way into the violinist’s view. “...Shinichi.”

Shinichi’s smile could account for much more than just words, especially when the musician leaned in and got a full taste of air when Shinichi simply brushed past him. He didn’t stick around to see Kuroba’s pout (however adorable it might have been).

“Well we better get going, wouldn’t want to miss the engagement party after all,” he said, looking with wide eyes at his phone and just far enough away from having a panic induced heart attack. “Ran’s going to be pissed isn’t she.”

“Well, not if we run,” the musician chimed, falling into step with the violinist and smirking when he successfully grabbed his hand.

“Remind me to find a more suitable plus one the next time my best friend goes and decides to get married.” 

“Suitable in which fashion? _Charm? Heroics?_ Jokes so funny that even the _coldest_ of hearts fall victim—!”

The answering kiss proved more than enough to silence him. 

“Please tell me you at least have another plan because I don’t think that one’s going to cut it.”

Kaito’s grin was enough to answer that question for the both of them.

“Oh believe me darling, I always do.”

 

**End**

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Isn’t Hakuba coming with you?”
> 
> “No, he got the day off for the engagement party.”
> 
> “Wow, that guy really is a bastard isn’t he?”
> 
> “You don’t know the half of it.”
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely comments! Any constructive criticism for this piece would be wonderful, and hopefully everyone at least enjoyed the premise? (I think it’s pretty clear by now that I am an avid jazz fan myself, but not a lot of people are so I’m glad people were still enjoying this regardless). But thanks again for reading~!


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